my first 27 hours

I was born just after 2am on February 19th, 1979 in a house somewhere Birmingham, Michigan. The address I am unaware of and the name of the woman that gave me life is unknown as well. Curiously, I was not checked into Beaumont hospital until approximately 5am on the 20th; 27 hours later.

My parents lived in Michigan but were originally from England and my father took a job back in London which ultimately separated them. They have not spoke since then yet sometime shortly after his departure, she witnessed her first signs of my life. To this very day, my father has no idea that I even exist. I do not possess the words to describe what that means to me.

In the past five years I have sought, my adoption agency has found and my biological mother is now aware that I am looking for her. She admitted that the telephone conversation she had with my adoption agency was the first where she spoke of me since she dropped me off for adoption when I was less than a week old. I envy her profound ability to keep a secret.

She returned to England shortly after my birth. I am her only child so her parents, now in their 80s, have no idea that they are actually grandparents. She has yet to tell the man she has lived with for the past twenty-five-plus years that she is a mother, as she has carried no other children.

I have read the report and know I share a physical likeness to her. Some aspect of me will always be empty without meeting her yet somehow I am supposed to accept the fact that 35 years ago, the woman who held me, cared for me and nursed me decided after 27 hours together to give me away? Do not speak to me of selfless decisions. She stared at a child who has the same pale complexion, dark auburn hair and same dark blue eyes that she has and then gave me away? I apologize but there is more than an explanation due. 

I know the date I was adopted, the date my son was born and the birth dates of my immediate family members; these dates remind me of something great. Those dates matter to me but as I grow older, my birthday only reminds me of a conflict and I have begun to hate it.

In terms of meeting her one day, she is the one that must go back in the past and open old wounds. She will have to answer to the charges of larceny for decades for fatherhood and grand-parenting as well as the now almost 3 decades of concealing me to the man she trusts.

In the wake of all of that, I remain hopeful. In a certain light, I need her. I wish her the humility that I have learned from her not being there, I wish her the strength that I have developed from facing the adversity of being adopted and I wish her the same fearlessness displayed by the grandson she is not yet aware exists.

Here is to her one day soon making that voyage; I will be here waiting.

a purpose

When I was an adolescent, I was incredibly angry. I purposely fought back against my parents, I denied the existence of a god and wrote a darker brand of poetry than I typically do today. I wrote a poem entitled 'Conflict of Self Interest'. It spoke to how I felt there was something inherently wrong with me, something awry. I felt for one reason or another that I would search for my own happiness all my life and never be able to quite find it.

Thankfully I have learned many things since then. I have grown to appreciate my parents for the wonderful people they are. For now, I have accepted the fact there is a divine architect behind all of what we see yet I contemplate his level of intervention. I enjoy writing poetry that sometimes tears at a heart yet sometimes elevates the next. However, I still recognize that internal conflict but have now grown to appreciate it because it defines me. I believe it to be the one great gift I was given.

I have always been open minded but have never dealt well with conformity. Some may accept something in its most raw form and then whittle it down while understanding it. I am the opposite. I will poke, prod, question, doubt, set ablaze and then completely tear down something to a finer material before digesting it.

Somewhere within that style of acceptance, I draw comparisons to what I already know. Thus was born my love for metaphors.
Somewhere in the blueprints for that process is the prerequisite to appreciate beauty. Thus was born my source for inspiration.
Somewhere in the fold of a thought is an imperfection to find and recognize. Thus was born my admiration for uniqueness.

Mixing all of this together endows me with an ability to capture a thought. I can hunt down a moment in time, encapsulate it in words, pin it down on a paper canvass with systematically placed verbiage and then stand back and appreciate it with poetic diction in its purest form.

My last blog became an outlet to burn a demon. It allowed me to vent anger, frustration and depression. I am not sure what this blog will become by my guess is that, much like my last one, this will evolve into what I need it to be. I hope you will join me.